It Starts with a Kiss
by whosgirl22
Summary: It was just a kiss, but John is afraid that he has upset the balance of 221B for good. Weeks have passed and Sherlock has yet to react, so John assumes the detective must be unaffected. Time for John to learn how wrong he is. Pure and utter fluff! [Head over to my account at AO3 for a continuation into sexier times].
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For a more explicit version, go to Chapter 2. Enjoy!

* * *

John runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls, over and over, amazed at their softness and availability. This thing between them is new, so amazement is acceptable. Although he's not sure that excuse will hold up thirty years from now. Sherlock mumbles something incoherent, and shifts, rubbing his nose across John's bare flesh. John smiles, happy that his lanky detective is finally getting some sleep. He glances down fondly at the taller man, this so rarely stilled specimen currently sprawled face down on his chest, and thinks of a time when this scenario only existed in his head. Sherlock's breath continues to waft in and out, tickling John's nipple. There will probably be drool later on, but the ex-military doctor doesn't mind; he will gladly suffer a thousand saliva filled nights if it means always having Sherlock by his side and in his bed. _To have and to hold, a memory untold,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes.

**_Four hours earlier…_**

'Sherlock?'

John closes the door behind him and pauses to hang up his coat. He enters the flat fully and glances around. Nothing. John sighs and moves toward the kitchen. A thinking tea is definitely in order. These past few days have been unsettling, to say the least. John wonders how life progresses outside 221B, longing for the normal abnormality of his life with Sherlock that has somehow fractured in the last few weeks. This is the third time in as many days that Sherlock has sprinted off somewhere alone and John has a sneaking suspicion it has to do with 'The Incident.'

He reaches up into the cupboard for his favorite mug, automatically moving to set the kettle on as he ruminates. Could it really have affected Sherlock that deeply? Mr. Sherlock 'I'm married to my work' Holmes? He can't say. He tries not to think about it, most days. Most days, he fails.

His phone beeps. Finally_. _He glances down and feels a quick stab of disappointment when he sees the name; it's Lestrade.

_John. Sherlock just left. I assumed he was headed back to Baker Street. He's not answering your texts? –GL_

John sets his mug down and grasps his phone in both hands as he gingerly types a response.

_No he's not, the git. Oh well – you know how he gets sometimes. –JW_

He presses the send button and sighs again. Lestrade knows.

The kettle whistles and John moves to intercept its wailing before the noise gets to be too much. He fixes his tea and moves toward the living room, thinking wistfully of the fire he had built the night before. Seeing as the necessary supplies have run out, John settles for the steaming beverage currently warming his hands to heat the rest of his body.

He settles into his chair and flips open the paper. His eyes scan the newsprint restlessly, mind not fully processing the words in front of him. The flat is so empty without Sherlock in it, even with the evidence of his habitation strewn over every surface. Books. A stack of case files. A tray of beakers. Without the man, however, they are just things. Simple objects that paint a picture, but not a portrait. Madness needs a focal point after all.

A door bangs and John looks up sharply. Feet trod up the stairs, and the door swings open to reveal a dramatic figure in a grey wool coat. John raises an eyebrow as the head swivels toward him and piercing eyes (green today) meet his. They share a look and Sherlock huffs, unimpressed.

'Your presence was redundant John,' he states as he unwinds his scarf and shrugs out of his outermost layer. He glides farther into the room.

'It might have been nice to hear that before now,' John says, remarkably mildly. 'For my peace of mind?' He's already resigned to the fact that Sherlock will pay no attention to what he says.

Sherlock shoots him a quick glance as he flops down onto the sofa, but deigns to respond. John shakes his head and returns to his non-reading while Sherlock, being Sherlock, lounges languidly, hands steepled beneath his chin.

_*scene break*_

'John.'

John starts, not sure how long he's been sitting. He thinks he may have nodded off.

'John,' Sherlock states again, his tone bordering on impatient.

'What, Sherlock,' John replies, yawning. He covers his mouth with a hand even as his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back. He wonders what time it is.

'I've been thinking,' Sherlock begins, and John snorts. He can't see Sherlock but the pointed silence can only mean one thing – the detective is glaring at him.

'We need to talk about what happened,' Sherlock says and suddenly John can't breathe.

He lowers his head to find Sherlock staring up at the ceiling. 'But you said -' John starts cautiously and then jumps as Sherlock swings his legs over to thump onto the floor, sitting up even as his eyes sweep down to crash into John's.

'I know what I said' he replies. There is steel beneath the deceptively velvet tone.

John swallows audibly in the tense silence of the flat, but keeps his eyes fixed on the curly haired man sitting across from him.

'What is there to talk about it?' He may be playing with fire here, but if there's one thing John Watson isn't afraid of, it's Sherlock Holmes.

'Did you mean it?' Sherlock stares intently at John. 'Did you mean what you said after you, well, you know.' Sherlock shifts his gaze down for a brief second and it's the first indication John has that perhaps Sherlock is more nervous than he's letting on.

'Course I did,' John replies steadily. He is a man of his word, after all.

Sherlock's eyes (grey now) widen slightly and John fights to stay immobile. His fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. He knows the next few moments are crucial.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, tumbling the curls into disarray. 'John,' he begins. 'I-' and suddenly John can't stay still anymore. He pushes himself up and strides quickly across to kneel upright between Sherlock's legs, hands placed lightly on either side of his thighs. He knows it's an invasion of personal space but this is important.

'What is it Sherlock? Tell me,' he commands.

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment and then sighs. His eyes lose their stormy color, softening into deep pools of blue. He lifts his hands and reaches out to slowly cup John's jaw. He leans forward, intent, and John feels his heart quicken.

'I love you too,' Sherlock whispers and then his mouth presses against John's and he is kissing him. John's eyelids flutter close and he kisses back, savoring the feel of Sherlock's full lips against his rather thin ones. He moans his approval and Sherlock responds in kind. They stay like this for a few seconds or maybe years; John isn't sure. He does know that this is a moment he will always treasure.

Sherlock moves on first, pressing against the confines of John's closed mouth with the tip of his tongue, eager for entanglement. John acquiesces with a sigh, parting his lips in a slow tease even as his own tongue reaches out in exploration. Sherlock tastes faintly of coffee; John presses more firmly into Sherlock's mouth, determined to learn what other flavors may be hidden. He draws a plump bit of flesh into his mouth and sucks noisily, drawing a deep rumble of appreciation. A nip here, a lick there – John wonders hazily how there is still so much to learn about his best friend. He leans forward, hands fumbling for purchase in Sherlock's suit coat, desperate to find out.

Sherlock seems to have the same idea. Having slid his large hands down from where they have been stroking John's face, he trails narrow fingers across John's neck and shoulders before finally coming to rest against the solidness of John's back. His thumbs knead through wool into flesh, their sudden tensing the only warning John has before he is pulled upward to crash awkwardly into Sherlock's lap even as the lanky detective twists to the side in an attempt to become horizontal. The sofa impedes John's movements, however, stopping Sherlock as well; and the sturdy doctor ends up with his nose crushed against Sherlock's chest, open mouth tasting Sherlock's shirt, legs sprawling out on the floor behind him.

Disoriented as he is to find himself suddenly tasting cool cotton instead of warm flesh, John can't help but giggle as he glances up to find a very disgruntled detective looking down at him. Sherlock's naturally plump lips are swollen, his pale eyes bright, his nose scrunched up and his curls in wild disarray. He stares down at John, panting slightly. John thinks he has never seen a more beautiful sight in his whole life.

'Well that escalated quickly,' John quips with a huffed laugh.

Sherlock's lips quirk upward in a sort of wry acknowledgement. He tilts his head down, verdigris eyes rapt upon John's face.

'Not entirely,' Sherlock begins as he arches a brow and leans even closer. 'This particular scenario has been building for some time. You first made overtures several weeks ago and I have had ample opportunity to consider the extent of my reaction to them in the interim' –

He is stopped mid-sentence by the return of John's mouth. 'Sherlock,' he murmurs with a half-grin.

'Yes John?' His reply is muffled, but John can still hear the smugness in it.

'Shut up.'

And Sherlock does.

_*scene break*_

Sherlock hears a steady thump as he regains consciousness. A consistent rise and fall of a sturdy chest. He opens his eyes to near blackness, noting the sprawl of his limbs, and most notably the resting of his head on John's upper torso. He has a crick in his neck but the closeness is worth it.

He shifts his gaze up to rest on John's face, eyelids fluttering in automatic defense as John's breath wafts across them. His eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he studies the face of his best friend. The doctor looks content, his mouth slightly open, the lines of his face smooth. Sherlock exhales in time, mingling the air from his lungs with that of his partner. He returns his head to its resting place, directly over John's heart. _Fitting_, he thinks drowsily. Closing his eyes, he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

A/N: Comments and other such feedback much appreciated! Again, if you're looking for a continuation into sexier times, simply continue on to the next chapter, where this is posted in its full glory.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So this is the full version I posted over on AO3. It's a bit smuttier than the edited version, so beware of sexy times ahead!

* * *

John runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls, over and over, amazed at their softness and availability. This thing between them is new, so amazement is acceptable. Although he's not sure that excuse will hold up thirty years from now. Sherlock mumbles something incoherent, and shifts, rubbing his nose across John's bare flesh. John smiles, happy that his lanky detective is finally getting some sleep. He glances down fondly at the taller man, this so rarely stilled specimen currently sprawled face down on his chest, and thinks of a time when this scenario only existed in his head. Sherlock's breath continues to waft in and out, tickling John's nipple. There will probably be drool later on, but the ex-military doctor doesn't mind; he will gladly suffer a thousand saliva filled nights if it means always having Sherlock by his side and in his bed. _To have and to hold, a memory untold,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes.

**_Four hours earlier…_**

'Sherlock?'

John closes the door behind him and pauses to hang up his coat. He enters the flat fully and glances around. Nothing. John sighs and moves toward the kitchen. A thinking tea is definitely in order. These past few days have been unsettling, to say the least. John wonders how life progresses outside 221B, longing for the normal abnormality of his life with Sherlock that has somehow fractured in the last few weeks. This is the third time in as many days that Sherlock has sprinted off somewhere alone and John has a sneaking suspicion it has to do with 'The Incident.'

He reaches up into the cupboard for his favorite mug, automatically moving to set the kettle on as he ruminates. Could it really have affected Sherlock that deeply? Mr. Sherlock 'I'm married to my work' Holmes? He can't say. He tries not to think about it, most days. Most days, he fails.

His phone beeps. Finally_. _He glances down and feels a quick stab of disappointment when he sees the name; it's Lestrade.

_John. Sherlock just left. I assumed he was headed back to Baker Street. He's not answering your texts? –GL_

John sets his mug down and grasps his phone in both hands as he gingerly types a response.

_No he's not, the git. Oh well – you know how he gets sometimes. –JW_

He presses the send button and sighs again. Lestrade knows.

The kettle whistles and John moves to intercept its wailing before the noise gets to be too much. He fixes his tea and moves toward the living room, thinking wistfully of the fire he had built the night before. Seeing as the necessary supplies have run out, John settles for the steaming beverage currently warming his hands to heat the rest of his body.

He settles into his chair and flips open the paper. His eyes scan the newsprint restlessly, mind not fully processing the words in front of him. The flat is so empty without Sherlock in it, even with the evidence of his habitation strewn over every surface. Books. A stack of case files. A tray of beakers. Without the man, however, they are just things. Simple objects that paint a picture, but not a portrait. Madness needs a focal point after all.

A door bangs and John looks up sharply. Feet trod up the stairs, and the door swings open to reveal a dramatic figure in a grey wool coat. John raises an eyebrow as the head swivels toward him and piercing eyes (green today) meet his. They share a look and Sherlock huffs, unimpressed.

'Your presence was redundant John,' he states as he unwinds his scarf and shrugs out of his outermost layer. He glides farther into the room.

'It might have been nice to hear that before now,' John says, remarkably mildly. 'For my peace of mind?' He's already resigned to the fact that Sherlock will pay no attention to what he says.

Sherlock shoots him a quick glance as he flops down onto the sofa, but deigns to respond. John shakes his head and returns to his non-reading while Sherlock, being Sherlock, lounges languidly, hands steepled beneath his chin.

_*scene break*_

'John.'

John starts, not sure how long he's been sitting. He thinks he may have nodded off.

'John,' Sherlock states again, his tone bordering on impatient.

'What, Sherlock,' John replies, yawning. He covers his mouth with a hand even as his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls back. He wonders what time it is.

'I've been thinking,' Sherlock begins, and John snorts. He can't see Sherlock but the pointed silence can only mean one thing – the detective is glaring at him.

'We need to talk about what happened,' Sherlock says and suddenly John can't breathe.

He lowers his head to find Sherlock staring up at the ceiling. 'But you said -' John starts cautiously and then jumps as Sherlock swings his legs over to thump onto the floor, sitting up even as his eyes sweep down to crash into John's.

'I know what I said' he replies. There is steel beneath the deceptively velvet tone.

John swallows audibly in the tense silence of the flat, but keeps his eyes fixed on the curly haired man sitting across from him.

'What is there to talk about it?' He may be playing with fire here, but if there's one thing John Watson isn't afraid of, it's Sherlock Holmes.

'Did you mean it?' Sherlock stares intently at John. 'Did you mean what you said after you, well, you know.' Sherlock shifts his gaze down for a brief second and it's the first indication John has that perhaps Sherlock is more nervous than he's letting on.

'Course I did,' John replies steadily. He is a man of his word, after all.

Sherlock's eyes (grey now) widen slightly and John fights to stay immobile. His fingers tighten on the arm of the chair. He knows the next few moments are crucial.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, tumbling the curls into disarray. 'John,' he begins. 'I-' and suddenly John can't stay still anymore. He pushes himself up and strides quickly across to kneel upright between Sherlock's legs, hands placed lightly on either side of his thighs. He knows it's an invasion of personal space but this is important.

'What is it Sherlock? Tell me,' he commands.

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment and then sighs. His eyes lose their stormy color, softening into deep pools of blue. He lifts his hands and reaches out to slowly cup John's jaw. He leans forward, intent, and John feels his heart quicken.

'I love you too,' Sherlock whispers and then his mouth presses against John's and he is kissing him. John's eyelids flutter close and he kisses back, savoring the feel of Sherlock's full lips against his rather thin ones. He moans his approval and Sherlock responds in kind. They stay like this for a few seconds or maybe years; John isn't sure. He does know that this is a moment he will always treasure.

Sherlock moves on first, pressing against the confines of John's closed mouth with the tip of his tongue, eager for entanglement. John acquiesces with a sigh, parting his lips in a slow tease even as his own tongue reaches out in exploration. Sherlock tastes faintly of coffee; John presses more firmly into Sherlock's mouth, determined to learn what other flavors may be hidden. He draws a plump bit of flesh into his mouth and sucks noisily, drawing a deep rumble of appreciation. A nip here, a lick there – John wonders hazily how there is still so much to learn about his best friend. He leans forward, hands fumbling for purchase in Sherlock's suit coat, desperate to find out.

Sherlock seems to have the same idea. Having slid his large hands down from where they have been stroking John's face, he trails narrow fingers across John's neck and shoulders before finally coming to rest against the solidness of John's back. His thumbs knead through wool into flesh, their sudden tensing the only warning John has before he is pulled upward to crash awkwardly into Sherlock's lap even as the lanky detective twists to the side in an attempt to become horizontal. The sofa impedes John's movements, however, stopping Sherlock as well; and the sturdy doctor ends up with his nose crushed against Sherlock's chest, open mouth tasting Sherlock's shirt, legs sprawling out on the floor behind him.

Disoriented as he is to find himself suddenly tasting cool cotton instead of warm flesh, John can't help but giggle as he glances up to find a very disgruntled detective looking down at him. Sherlock's naturally plump lips are swollen, his pale eyes bright, his nose scrunched up and his curls in wild disarray. He stares down at John, panting slightly. John thinks he has never seen a more beautiful sight in his whole life.

'Well that escalated quickly,' John quips with a huffed laugh.

Sherlock's lips quirk upward in a sort of wry acknowledgement. He tilts his head down, verdigris eyes rapt upon John's face.

'Not entirely,' Sherlock begins as he arches a brow and leans even closer. 'This particular scenario has been building for some time. You first made overtures several weeks ago and I have had ample opportunity to consider the extent of my reaction to them in the interim' –

He is stopped mid-sentence by the return of John's mouth. 'Sherlock,' he murmurs with a half-grin.

'Yes John?' His reply is muffled, but John can still hear the smugness in it.

'Shut up.'

Sherlock chuckles and leans back, sliding down to extend his full length along the sofa even as John shifts up and over, bringing himself to lie more fully on top of the consulting detective.

John's hands wrap themselves possessively around the back of Sherlock's head, fingers sinking into the soft curls. He presses on Sherlock's skull, encouraging him to continue his explorations. Sherlock tilts his head, lips shifting against John's as they slip and slide against one another, pressing firmly, deviating only to nip and slip soft licks through into each other's mouths.

Desperation builds – John untangles his hands from Sherlock's inky locks and runs them down the length of Sherlock's neck and across his shoulders, where they stop at the edges of his black suit coat. He pushes at the material, and Sherlock leans up, shrugging his shoulders backwards to help in the removal process. John tugs at first one sleeve, then the other, finally working the garment fully free. He tosses it to the floor and resumes his hands-on study of the long, lean body beneath him. Sherlock's appreciative groan reverberates underneath his palms even as he relaxes back into the cushions.

Graceful hands flow down John's back to grasp his arse and John squirms as strong fingers begin to knead the tender flesh. A slow rotation of the hips has John gasping as his body rubs fully against Sherlock's, leaving nothing to the imagination. Sherlock moans and arches his hips up in invitation for more; his palms move up from John's backside to splay out across his shoulder blades.

John breaks away from Sherlock's lips to plant open mouthed kisses along his neck even as his other hand moves to cup Sherlock's nape. He nibbles his way down to the collarbone and begins to undo the straining buttons of Sherlock's deep purple shirt, fingers slipping down after every one to caress the smooth skin revealed.

Sherlock tugs hard on John's grey jumper, determined to keep up. He makes it halfway up John's torso before he has to stop, thwarted by a pair of arms. He grunts in frustration and John takes pity, pausing in his ministrations to sit up, arms stretched over his head. Sherlock allows a quick grin to flit across his face as he completes his task. The jumper joins the coat on the floor, followed quickly by the purple cotton, as John takes full advantage of his newfound angle.

He sits for a moment, drinking in the sight of the man below him. Pale, smooth muscles flex in Sherlock's arms as he continues to rub his hands up and down John's lower back. His fingertips meet on John's spine and John can't help but shiver at the impact their touch has on his central nervous system.

Impossible eyes meet his and hold for several seconds. A slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face. He knows what he does to John, and he enjoys it.

'We have two options,' he says, still looking at John.

'Yes?' John replies.

'One – we continue our activities here on this sofa'.

John nods. This makes sense.

'Two – we continue our activities in my bedroom.' Although John's heart takes a leap at the mention of Sherlock's bedroom, he's caught up in the moment they're currently sharing and doesn't want to move.

'If it's all the same to you, I'll take the sofa,' John says, and before Sherlock can reply he bends over and reattaches himself to Sherlock's body. He swirls his tongue across the flat plane of the detective's pectoral muscle, zeroing in on the dusky purple nipple in the center. He sucks lightly on the small nub and Sherlock jerks, clearly sensitive.

'Like that do you?' John murmurs, moving his attention to the other side. Sherlock's sharp movement is answer enough and John grins, storing the information for future use.

In retaliation, Sherlock's hands slip inside the waistband of John's trousers and pants to cup his bum for real. John grinds his hips, moaning at the sensation of Sherlock being both above and below his groin.

'John,' Sherlock says desperately, his hips jerking involuntarily upwards. His hands squeeze and rub the firm mounds: first one, then the other.

John moves lower, tracing the outline of Sherlock's ribcage with his tongue. Sherlock's hands slide up and out of John's waistband; he hisses at the slippery path John has elected to create along the lower portion of his torso.

John moves lower still, following the trail of dark hair on Sherlock's abdomen to where it disappears beneath the equally dark trousers. Evidence of Sherlock's arousal is extremely apparent, and John licks his lips in anticipation. His hands fumble briefly with the buttons, but it's not long before he is rewarded with the sight of a long and nearly fully erect penis springing up from its constraints. He leans over and licks a clean stripe up the underside, engulfing the head in one smooth motion when he reaches the top. He swirls his tongue around several times but the angle is a little off. He pulls back, a soft _pop _escapingas his lips leave the object of their affection. His mouth is salty and sweet, the perfect combination.

He glances up to find Sherlock watching him, lips parted and pupils blown. 'Budge up,' John says, placing a hand on Sherlock's chest and pushing gently. Sherlock moves quickly to obey, and John takes advantage of his movement to remove his pants and trousers entirely. He turns from tossing them on the floor and stops, suddenly taken aback by the man in front of him.

Sherlock is sitting at a forty-five degree angle to the arm of the sofa; his arms rest at his sides and his legs are spread, with one foot resting on the floor. He is the picture of debauchery, with his tousled curls, tip-tilted eyes and plush lips. John shakes his head, amazed. This is the man he has fallen in love with, and who by some miracle loves him back.

Sherlock gives a knowing smile and John is struck with the sudden urge to wipe it off of his face. Drawing his legs up underneath him, he kneels and leans forward to reclaim Sherlock's cock. One hand grips the base firmly even as the other tickles the underside of his balls.

Johns sets up a rhythm, twisting with his hand even as he bobs up and down with his mouth. In and out, in and out – he gets lost in the meter of his seduction. He swirls, he licks, he pulls and he scrapes. Although it's been years since he's done this, he's still got it, judging by the noises escaping from Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's hand creeps down to caress John's skull even as he grows harder and harder under John's attentions. He begins to push into John's mouth of his own accord; John's nostrils flare as he adjusts for the additional lack of air. Fingers tighten and scrape in increased agitation, and John increases the pace, running a hand up and down the inside of Sherlock's thighs and around his backside. He kneads and caresses, paying special attention to the soft fold of flesh at the base of his cock; and to its precious, sensitive occupants. The salty taste becomes more and more prevalent as pre-cum leaks from Sherlock's slit in anticipation of the main event. John laps it up eagerly and presses on.

'John,' Sherlock moans. 'John I'm – '

John braces himself, hollowing his cheeks to provide the final suction. That's all it takes for Sherlock to come, his stiff cock pulsing as wave after wave of hot cum fills John's mouth. He swallows it all down greedily, milking Sherlock for every last drop.

John finishes his adorations and sweeps quickly up Sherlock's body to plant a full kiss on the cupid's bow. Sherlock responds eagerly, parting his lips and licking at the corner of John's mouth for the last drops of his seed even as he moves his hands down to do some fumbling of his own at the clasp of John's trousers.

John shifts to accommodate him, eager to get out of the now very constricting material. Sherlock leans forward and suddenly it's John's turn to sprawl against the arm of the sofa while Sherlock sits, legs tucked up underneath him. John wiggles out of his pants and trousers as he shifts back, watching as Sherlock uses the articles of clothing to complete the set already on the floor.

Sherlock sits back on his heels and stares down at John's groin with something approaching a reverent expression; John resists the urge to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Sherlock glances up at him and gives a real smile before ducking his head to nuzzle at John's crotch. He snuffles wetly at the blond curls there, moving down slightly to slide those luscious lips over the head of John's cock. He sighs, and John groans at the feeling of being enveloped in the soft heat of Sherlock's mouth.

John closes his eyes, fisting his hands in the pliable cushions of the sofa as he loses himself to the sensations Sherlock seems intent on provoking. One supple hand stretches itself up and caresses up and down John's lower torso even as the other strokes his cock. Sherlock's tongue outlines the rounded ridges at the tip and John sucks in a deep breath at the sensation. He knows he's not going to last long.

Sherlock caresses John's balls with the pads of his fingers, their ghostly touch teasing and tortuous. His palm rubs firmly against the base of John's erection in perfect tandem with his lush lips, and John bites down on his bottom lip firmly, eyes squeezing even tighter together in an effort to prolong this encounter. He knows it's a fruitless endeavor.

'Sherlock' he finally gasps, the name escaping in a near whisper. He runs his hands up to cup Sherlock's curls. There's an intenseness building, a pressure, and John needs to focus on that, must focus on that. He opens his eyes and looks down. The familiar dark head at the apex of his thighs, a visual confirmation that this is actually happening, is nearly enough to end him. Then Sherlock looks up and meets John's eyes with his incredibly intent pale ones, mouth still working, large hands still stroking and it is this combination that finally does John in. His mouth opens in a silent exclamation even as his hands clench around Sherlock's head. His abdomen tightens with the force of his climax, hips thrusting involuntarily forward as he empties himself into Sherlock's mouth. He knows he should feel bad for the lack of warning he's given Sherlock, but it's the man's own bloody fault for being so good at this.

Sherlock swallows. John's head lolls back even as his hands unclench and fall away to land with a soft _thump _on the sofa, resting on the cushions yet again. He stares up at the dark ceiling, letting his eyes drift shut. He takes a deep breath, chest expanding, and exhales slowly, the air leaving his lips in a sigh.

Sherlock swallows again and John can feel him pulling back, exposing more and more of John's cock to the coolness of the room until it flops down to land with a soft wet sound on the side of his thigh.

'John.' His name is a rumble, a contented growl, and John's eyes flicker in an attempted response.

'Mmmm' he says, briefly cracking one eye open.

Sherlock shifts abruptly and John's suspicions are proven correct when he opens his eyes to find Sherlock looming above him, looking down with a curious expression.

'Sorry about that,' John mumbles, flicking a hand half-heartedly in the direction of his crotch. Sherlock looks puzzled. 'About the, ah, lack of warning,' John continues, eyes skitting away briefly from Sherlock's gaze in an absurd moment of shyness.

'John,' Sherlock scoffs, the tone drawing John's eyes back in line with his own. 'That was hardly my first blowjob. And for you to assume I would be unaware of how your body would react to my stimuli, and thus how long it would take for you to climax, is ludi-'.

John shuts Sherlock up with his mouth, yet again. 'You arrogant git' he mumbles fondly, and Sherlock chuckles once more before he presses John back down into the sofa cushions and kisses him into oblivion.

_*scene break*_

Sherlock hears a steady thump as he regains consciousness. A consistent rise and fall of a sturdy chest. He opens his eyes to near blackness, noting the sprawl of his limbs, and most notably the resting of his head on John's upper torso. He has a crick in his neck but the closeness is worth it.

He shifts his gaze up to rest on John's face, eyelids fluttering in automatic defense as John's breath wafts across them. His eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he studies the face of his best friend. The doctor looks content, his mouth slightly open, the lines of his face smooth. Sherlock exhales in time, mingling the air from his lungs with that of his partner. He returns his head to its resting place, directly over John's heart. _Fitting_, he thinks drowsily. Closing his eyes, he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
